Red Centre

by Ansel Gough

  Frank looked over at Roy, a little confused. “Calm down, nancy. I didn’t do anythin’ with ya son, ya dumb son-of-a-bitch.” He walked over and sat on the bed behind Chris.

  Chris scooted his chair back so Frank wasn’t directly behind him.

  Frank slowly played with the knife in his hand. “Ya know that around thirty-five thousand people go missin’ in Australia each year? A hundred and seventy-five, give or take a few—never seen again.” His eyes looked to Roy, then back to Chris again. “Take out runaways, criminal activity, murders and so on.” He pointed the blade at Chris. “I could slit ya throat and dump your arse in the desert and no one would ever find you. Not out here.”

  Chris’ gaze locked Frank’s; on edge, still unsure of his immediate fate.

  Frank continued, his voice slightly raised, frustrated. “But there are a handful of people that are never found. They remain a mystery. Not connected to any criminal activity.” He snapped his fingers together. “They just disappear. Cold cases. No one can explain it. No one wants to explain it.” Frank got to his feet. “I saw it. With me own damn eyes. It’s no longer a mystery.” Frank looked to the ceiling. “They took my Emma.”

  Chris felt a lump in his throat. His eyes glanced around the room. Was he going to get out alive?

  “What do you want with me?” Chris said in a slow, calculated voice.

  Frank let out a chuckle as he sat back on the bed. “You’re an itch that won’t leave me alone.” He turned his knife over, lightly rubbing the blade with his thumb to determine its sharpness. “So what do I do with ya? Dump your arse in the desert or …” His eyes looked up at Roy.

  Roy winced. He knew what he was going to say.

  “... use you as an ally.” Frank finished his sentence.

  “I say we dump his arse in the desert, Frank.” Roy sucked snot out of his nose into his mouth, spitting it onto the floor. “We don’t need this Yankee piece of shit.”

  Frank looked down at the green booger on his floor. “Ya better clean that shit up.”

  “Sorry, Frank.”

  Frank turned his attention back to Chris. He pointed the knife. “I think it would be easier to dump your arse … but …”

  “Can we talk about this, Frank?” Roy interrupted.

  Frank dropped his arms down by his sides. He gave a look of “what do we have to talk about?”

  Roy motioned with his head to step out of the room for a moment. Frank grunted, getting to his feet.

  Chris’ eyes darted around. He focused his attention on the wardrobe in the corner. Wardrobe in front of the door. Chair through the window. One minute to get to my car. He grabbed the armrests, ready to make a move. He watched as Roy stepped just outside the door. Frank was smarter. He stood side on, his back against the open door, glancing over at Chris—to ensure he didn’t try any crazy shit.

  Chris didn’t know what to do. Use the chair as a weapon? Maybe not so good against two men and a knife. He stayed, not wanting to risk another beat down or being stabbed. They may slit his throat anyway.

  After a short moment of indistinct dialogue, Frank returned to the bed and Roy stood back by the door.

  Damn it! Opportunity gone, Chris thought to himself.

  “What if ya knew who took your son?” Frank sat on the edge of the bed. “But ya couldn’t call the cops. What would ya do?”

  Chris sat forward, fear turning to anger. “I would hunt down whoever has him.”

  “To get your boy back, you’re gonna need to do things.” He looked up at Chris under his old, bushy eyebrows. “Things you may not wanna do.”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  “If ya want in on our little operation here, ya have to buy your way in.”

  “Buy my way in?” Chris squinted his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Fifty grand. Cash!”

  Chris looked at the two men. Roy had a smug look on his face. One that Chris would like to knock right off. “If I give you the money, will you give me back my son?”

  Frank dropped his head. Holy shit, does this guy listen?

  “Cut ’im Frank! Cut his dumb arse.” Roy had an evil twinkle in his eye, eager to inflict more pain on Chris.

  “We’re at war”—he pointed the knife up—“with them. And war costs a lot of money and I’m all out.” Frank got back to his feet to leave. “I don’t have your son. So if ya want him back, we’re the only ones that can help you.”

  Frank waited for a response from Chris, but he was silent. Dumbfounded.

  “I’m not gonna offer again. So either get ya arse outta me house, or cut me a check.” Frank lingered for a moment, waiting again for Chris’ response.

  Chris still tried to process the information, not sure what to do or what to make of these two rednecks. His mind ticking over, trying to find the right words. “Are you yanking my chain? Trying to shake me down, Frank?”

  Frank looked over at Roy, not sure what Chris was on about.

  “This is bullshit. You and your fat boyfriend need to let me go,” Chris said.

  “This is no bullshit. If ya want in, you gotta pay.”

  Chris looked back and forth between the two very serious men. “You’re serious?”

  Frank stood firm.

  “You need to show me first,” Chris continued.

  Frank looked over at Roy, who shook his head.

  Chris looked over at Roy. “I don’t know what kind of freak show you hillbillies are running here. If you want cash, you need to open the door and let me take a look.” Chris looked back at Frank. “I don’t even know if what you’re doing can deliver results.”

  Frank rubbed his chin. He had a good point. He took a deep breath. He looked over at Roy and then back to Chris. “What I’m about to tell ya is classified.”

  Chris frowned. “Who classified it?”

  Frank and Roy just stared at him, not sure what the question meant.

  Chris continued. “What government agency classified it, US or Australian?”

  “No, stupid! It’s me own damn classification. What I tell ya doesn’t leave the room.”

  Chapter Eleven

  METI

  Newspaper clippings, photos of aliens and UFOs plastered the living room walls. Some were believable and others not so much. Some were just artist impressions. Chris moved around the room examining the photos. Frank stood in the middle of the room observing. Roy stayed back, standing in the doorway.

  Chris reached the photo of Shawn. It was accompanied by a photo of Emma and what appeared to be other missing persons.

  “What is all this?” Chris said.

  “Research.” Frank adjusted his dusty jeans. “Know your enemy.”

  Chris pointed to the picture of Shawn. “What about this?”

  “Prisoner of war.”

  Chris looked back at Frank. Had this guy completely lost his shit? His eyes reexamined the room. All the furniture had been removed except for the coffee table, lamp, a wooden desk and chair, which sat against the wall. Books on aliens and UFOs piled up high. Papers scattered everywhere. An old computer, with an old CRT monitor, sat in the middle of the chaos. Above the computer hung a large world map, dotted with little red pins.

  Chris moved over to the desk, retrieving one of the books. He carelessly flipped through it, viewing pictures and text about UFOs and aliens. All seemed made up. His eyes wandered up to the map. Hundreds of the little red pins dotted every country. Chris shot a look back at Frank.

  “Sightings.” Frank cleared his throat. “Every country has ’em.”

  Chris threw the book back onto the pile. “This is it? Any whack job can get all of this off the net!”

  Frank folded his arms. He looked back at Roy, who said, “Don’t do it, Frank. We don’t know this arsehole.”

  Chris stayed quiet, observing the two men, not wanting to break Frank’s flow.

  “There’s more,” Frank mumbled.

  ***

  The bright afternoon sun hi
t the three men in the face as they exited through the back door. Frank lead the group behind the two sheds. The vast land stretched out as far as the eye could see: rolling dirt hills, scattered trees, birds soaring in the open blue sky. It would be beautiful if it wasn’t so friggin’ hot. Close to the sheds lay a huge bank of solar panels, all running back to the sheds. Beside the panels were twenty, ten-inch satellite dishes, all of their cabling running back to one of the sheds.

  “As ya can see”—Frank pointed to all the fancy gear—“I’ve had expenses.”

  “What’s it for?” Chris asked.

  ***

  The heavy chain slid down, dropping into the dirt as Frank removed the padlock from the first shed’s doors. The door opened. Light spilled into the darkened shed. Two old cars, partly pulled apart, lay near the entrance. Behind the cars, toward the back, a large vehicle was parked. A heavy-duty, gray canvas tarp covered most of it. Only the large, four-by-four styled tires were exposed. The rooftop had something extra attached, protruding from the top; an odd, circular shape. Chris’ eyes were drawn to it.

  He continued to take in his surroundings: a workbench to the right with an array of tools. Two small, rusty fox traps hung from the wall above, the metal jaws blunt and well used. To the left, some steel stairs led to a mezzanine. A greenish glow emanated from there. Desks lined the outer railing, making it hard to see what was actually up there.

  The three men climbed the stairs. Their boots on the steel-grid stairs echoed through the expansive shed.

  The desks circled the small room, which included what looked like high-tech equipment: lights blinking and little beeps emitting from black and gray units. Chris didn’t recognize any of this stuff. Large computer monitors, power cables and network cables running everywhere filled out the rest of the space.

  Programming code populated several monitors. Another had a weather map—at least that was what it looked like. At one of the workstations sat a small-framed man, in his late sixties. He wore full-length, blue pajamas with moons all over them. He didn’t break his concentration, his face inches from the screen, except to adjust the thick glasses which sat on the end of his nose. As the three men approached he held up his index finger, indicating no one speak. His hair was spiked. He looked like a crazy person.

  “Touch nothing!” the crazy man said in a thick, Russian accent.

  The Russian scooted his wheeled chair across the room to another workstation. His fingers danced on the keyboard, typing a hundred words a minute. He paused, looking up at Chris. “Is your head okay?” He pointed to the back of his own head, and immediately returned to frantic typing. “You didn’t give me a choice.” He let out a quiet chuckle to himself.

  Chris rubbed the back of his head. The blood had clotted and dried in his short hair.

  “This is Dr. Sargy Pavlova,” Frank interrupted. “Space scientist.”

  The Russian stopped typing, “Ser-gei!” He banged his first onto the desk. “Sergei Pavlovich! Imbecile.”

  “This is me command center.” Frank walked to the center of the room, turning to face Chris. “Pav is in charge of the techno stuff.” Then he nodded at Roy. “Roy, security.”

  Chris looked over at Roy. The lower half of his bare gut hung out from under his shirt that was a size too small. Jeans in their usual position—half way down his ass. Pathetic. He turned his attention back to the crazy Russian. “What’s he doing?”

  “METI.” The Russian stopped what he was doing to get involved in the conversation. “Messaging to Extraterrestrial Intelligence.”

  Chris listened carefully to understand his thick, Russian accent. “Like SETI?” Chris asked, referring to the government agency: Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence.

  “HET, HET!” He said “no” in his native Russian. “American stupidity,” he said to himself. “We’re not searching!” He cleared his throat. “Using advanced algorithms and binary code—a mathematical language—we sending message to ETs.”

  “What are you messaging?” Chris enquired.

  “Declarations of war,” Frank interjected.

  “Not like the pussies over at SETI,” Roy added, trying to sound intelligent and be involved in the conversation.

  Chris frowned. “Isn’t that kind of dangerous? And wouldn’t it take years for it to reach its intended target? Do you guys even know what you’re really doing?”

  Pav grabbed an open bottle of vodka, knocking back a gulp. He sat forward on his chair. At last, someone smarter than the two Australian idiots. “These satellite dish, too small to do anything with any significances.” He nodded his head back and forth trying to think how to explain what he did and find the English words. “With all together we making a small Allen Telescope Array; but we’re not trying reach outer space.”

  Pav scooted across the room on his chair. He reached the monitor with the weather map and pointed at it. “We track reported sighting and send message directly to source, inside atmosphere.”

  Chris shot a look back at Frank with a... “are-you-serious!” expression on his face. This shit is getting crazier by the minute, he thought.

  “We knew we’d get them to come back eventually—and we were right,” Frank said, overjoyed. “This is your chance to get your boy back; and my Emma.”

  Roy and Pav nodded their heads in agreement. Chris looked around the room at the three men. He shook his head. This didn’t make any sense at all. “You’re wasting my time.”

  Chris turned to walk out. Roy stood up straight and moved to block Chris’ exit.

  Chris rubbed his bruised cheek. Clenched his fists by his side. “Get outta my way, Roy, before I roll your fat ass down those steps, so help me God,” he said through clenched teeth.

  Roy raised his chin, very smug, ready for a fight.

  “We found one,” Frank spoke up, “and this ...”

  Chris spun around to see what Frank was talking about. In his hand he held up a small item, wrapped in a cloth. Chris inched forward to investigate. Frank slowly unwrapped it, revealing a small, oval item, about the size of an avocado: jet black, very smooth, like a water-washed creek stone. Faint symbols decorated the outside: squiggly lines, circles, triangles. Maybe alien words.

  “We found it this morning.” Frank held it out closer toward Chris. “It was where ya encountered them last night. We figured it must have dropped it when ya hit it with the truck.”

  “How do you know all that?” Chris asked.

  “Cop scanner,” Roy interjected.

  Chris reached out his fingers to touch the item. Frank quickly covered it again. “We’re not sure what it does. Pav is gonna take a look.”

  Chris looked up into Frank’s eyes. “You said you found one?”

  Chapter Twelve

  The Hunt

  Piled-up, large rocks blocked the cave entrance. No one was going in or out, without some heavy lifting. Frank, Roy and Chris stood in front of the crude, rock wall. They made Chris carry all the climbing gear and supplies in a backpack. It reminded him when he was back in the National Guard boot camp—carrying backpacks and taking orders. But he had to do whatever it took to find Shawn. If he didn’t, how would he live with himself? How would he face Kate?

  Frank and Roy were ready for a fight, shotguns loaded. The sun was getting low in the sky. In a few short hours, night would be upon them.

  Chris dropped the backpack to the ground. “How do you know it’s in there?”

  “We tracked it all mornin’.” Frank moved over to the rock wall to examine it. “We think it’s wounded, and—”

  “It took Rancid,” Roy interjected, in an almost sad/angry tone. He raised his shotgun in front of him. Ready for revenge.

  “He sent his dog in”—Frank looked back at Roy—”and it never came back.”

  “What if it just got lost?” Chris said with a smirk.

  ***

  Chris tossed the last heavy rock away from the entrance, slapping his hands together to remove dirt and dust.

  He
squatted down in front of the looming entrance. The smell of moist earth and the feel of humid air touched his face. The unknown territory and enemy was disconcerting. What kind of danger lay in front of them?

  He was hesitant, giving a final look to Frank and Roy who stood over him, before entering.

  A beam of light from Chris’ small, tactical flashlight shone down the small, rocky cave tunnel, illuminating never-ending red dirt and rocks. Does the red, powdered dirt ever end? Chris led the way, followed by Frank and then Roy—who could barely fit through the snug opening.